Celly Come Home

He drifted away into the night without so much as a beep. There were no warning signs. And while, yes, it is true that Celly and I had only been together since May, we grew close quickly. Our dedication, reliance on one another, the depth of what we shared came in a lightening flash and blossomed.

And now he's gone.

If I knew where he'd gone. If I knew he was with someone else... some stranger, perhaps with a flashier car, a designer purse with a little pocket just for him... well, perhaps it would be easier. But Celly and I were together one moment, and the next he was simply not there. I spent the morning retracing my steps. CVS. Roche Brothers Market. The Office (Starbucks). I've called out, checked beneath gum-wadded tables. I've wept.

It's as if he never existed. It's as if Celly had not hugged my hip, tucked inside my jeans, with loyalty and a solid determination to serve all these months. As though what we shared daily were a trick of the mind, a tangled memory that was only a dream. And yet I feel that loss, the emptiness of glossy black weight where he nestled in our time together.

Yes, Celly is gone and I don't know where, or why, or even if it was something I did. I've lost more weight recently. My jeans are loose and I've had some cash slip out of my pockets. Was he displeased with the loss of that extra padding? Did I callously fail to hear the dreaded thud of his impact with a cruel floor? Is Celly somewhere, tucked into a lost and found bin, missing me?

I may never know, but I hold out hope. I search for it. I burn to know he is safe, somewhere close, waiting for me to find him.

Celly... if you're out there... come home to me. I don't need to know where you've been... who you've been with. I'll erase the call list and never even look at it. Just come home, baby... come home.